


can you play me a memory?

by sleeplessmiles



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 18:27:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3779332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeplessmiles/pseuds/sleeplessmiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>All May wants in the world, right at this moment, is for this girl she loves like a daughter to continue playing the piano.</em><br/> <br/>--</p>
<p>Hot on the trail of the lost boys of SHIELD, May and Jemma enjoy a fleeting moment of reprieve and discover something they have in common.</p>
<p>[Post-2x17]</p>
            </blockquote>





	can you play me a memory?

**Author's Note:**

> I've always believed both May and Jemma to be pianists, and then 2x17 happened, and quite apart from destroying me in every way that matters, it also had that shot of the piano in May and Andrew's house. And then Jiaying and Skye were playing music together, and there were just so many mother/daughter parallels in the episode that I honestly couldn't resist.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!

 

 

Fitz has fallen off the map. 

Honestly, May’s not too concerned about it – she’s actually pretty sure that the tail Bobbi put on him was less to do with surveillance and more to do with security, and if that were the case, they wouldn’t exactly have gone to great lengths to hide themselves from him. So she’s not particularly surprised that Fitz was able to pick the tail.

She _is_ surprised, however, that he managed to shake it.

He’s resourceful, of course – all the Bus kids are, May muses with a faint pang of pride – but he doesn’t really have the experience to execute a move like that. He had to have sought help. There’s still a slim chance that he’s been taken by Hydra or some other nefarious party, but she knows they’d have had no qualms about making a scene in order to snatch him. They’d have left a trail.

So, given the circumstances, May’s pretty positive that Fitz is now with Coulson. 

Not that she’s been able to instil that same sense of confidence in his fretting lab partner, though. 

When Jemma shuffles into Coulson’s old office some time around midday, entire body tense and lips downturned, May immediately knows that she hasn’t had any further success in her frantic search for the engineer. Even so, May makes a point of asking; above all else, she needs to keep Jemma communicating openly. 

(She refuses to let this girl become consumed by her pain from the inside out, all the while covering it up with a bright smile and a too-desperate hug.) 

‘Any luck?’ 

Jemma shakes her head sadly. Her eyes, underlined by dark smudges that become more pronounced with each passing day, say everything she would never dare to voice aloud. 

_I sent him out there._

_Whatever happens next, it’s on me._

_It’s my fault._

May suppresses the urge to sigh. It wouldn’t be Jemma Simmons if she weren’t actively bearing the weight of her loved ones’ wellbeings like it’s her God-given responsibility.

‘He’d need help, shaking the tail,’ May quietly reminds her. ‘Coulson or Hunter, probably.’

Jemma’s lips twist into a wry grin. ‘Coulson or Lance. Is that supposed to make me feel better?’

Noting the quiet desperation behind Jemma’s gaze, May gentles her voice a little.

‘He’s probably fine.’

Seeking out May’s eyes with her own, Jemma only watches her for a few moments, before she eventually nods. It’s a small and uncertain thing, and it makes May’s heart clench, but it’s going to have to be enough for now.

Brushing that quickly aside, she continues on. ‘I know you probably don’t want to hear it, but – ’

‘You think we should go to Andrew.’

If Jemma noticed how May used the inclusive _we_ , she doesn’t show it. Instead, her shoulders sag a little.

‘It makes sense, doesn’t it? He’s the only connection we’ve got to any of it. Without Fitz…’ she trails off, seeming to get distracted by what could potentially be happening to Fitz. May firms her lips.

‘I’ll talk to Bobbi and Weaver.’

At that, Jemma raises her eyebrows – somewhat petulantly, May thinks, and she’s reminded of how incredibly personally Jemma’s still taking their ongoing presence.

‘Do you honestly think they’ll let us leave for the afternoon?’

‘They’re not going to _let_ us do anything,’ May replies firmly, putting her tablet back down onto the desk. Jemma starts at the motion.

‘They’re not,’ she repeats, clearly confused.

‘No. They’re not.’ May smirks. ‘Because _I’m_ in charge.’

And despite herself, despite the entire situation, Jemma grins right back.

 

 

-

-

 

 

The drive to Andrew’s place is a mostly silent affair, which suits May just fine. There isn’t that much for them to talk about at this point, anyway – they’re each painfully aware of what’s at stake, _who’s_ at stake, and any further speculation could really only be damaging to the tenuous grasp they have on the whole situation.

Even in the quiet, however, May has noticed a marked change in Jemma’s energy, as though being out in the open has sparked something in her. She suspects it’s the sense that they’re abstractly closer to their scattered family out here, that their goal of chasing everyone down, keeping them safe, is that much more tangible.

She can relate to that. May’s been feeling pretty cooped up and powerless lately herself.

Turning another corner, she glances briefly at the rear view mirror, rolling her eyes at what she sees there. 

They’re being tailed.

By SHIELD. 

She shouldn’t be that annoyed by it, really. Even though she hasn’t tried to hide their intentions at any point, and even though Bobbi knows exactly where they’re going (and who they’re meeting), it’s a reasonable enough move that SHIELD would want to make sure they’re being truthful.

Still. It’s pissing her off.

Glancing across at Jemma, at the way she’s staring out at the world with wide eyes, her legs tucked beneath her, May gets an idea. 

Fitz got to learn how to lose a tail, after all. She might as well give Jemma something to think about. Besides, they’re running a little early. Can’t hurt.

Smirking to herself, May takes the next right instead of the left she's meant to take.

For the next five minutes, May makes a point of turning down every little side street, staying in roundabouts much longer than necessary, making several trips around the same block, and just generally driving in an entirely different direction to where they’re headed. Eventually, Jemma unfolds her legs, rotating in her seat to look at May curiously.

‘They… already know where we’re going, don’t they.’

‘Yes.’

She sits with that for a moment, nodding to herself a couple of times.

‘So the sole purpose of this would be… to mess with them.’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. Got it.’

She says nothing more, but when they’re stopped at the next set of lights, May glances across to see her biting her bottom lip, desperately trying to hold back a smile. At May’s eyes on her, she gives in, letting out a breathless laugh that has the corners of May’s mouth tugging upwards in response. Shaking her head a little, she puts the car into drive once more, delighting in Jemma’s laugh when her next turn takes them further still from their destination.

(If they arrive at Andrew’s a little late, then, well. They were taking a short cut.)

 

 

-

-

 

 

The first thing May does after knocking on Andrew’s front door is to try to open it. It’s stupid and sentimental of her, she knows, because he lives in a different house now, and really it’s been years so there isn’t any reason to think –

She meets resistance.

It’s locked.

_Oh._

As she steps back again, she’s hyperaware of Jemma watching from a few feet away, her eyes wide and face hesitant, but the girl blessedly says nothing. May’s grateful for it, for the fleeting space it gives her to sort through what she’s feeling.

When Andrew opens the door almost a minute later, May’s stomach sinks at the expression on his face. He’s all expectation and resignation, and it’s immediately apparent that he knows exactly why they’re here.

_Damn it, Drew._  

He glances over their shoulders for a few moments, before looking back at them.

‘You’ve got company?’

May raises her eyebrows by way of confirmation. ‘Seems SHIELD sees you as a threat.’

Andrew only sighs at that, shifting his attention to Jemma.

‘Dr. Simmons. It’s good to see you again.’

‘Oh, no. No – please, call me Jemma,’ she babbles, slightly breathless. He smiles at her nervous eagerness, bemused, and his eyes flick briefly over to May before settling back on Jemma.

‘Jemma, then. Come through.’

_He didn’t lock the door_ , May registers as they follow him down the front hallway. She feels her lips twitch momentarily upwards, before fighting to get her face back under control once more.

‘It appears we have much to catch up on,’ Andrew’s saying, leading them through to the living room. Jemma’s unabashedly peering around at the well-furnished space, eyes drinking everything in, but May’s too focused on scrutinising Andrew’s face.

‘It would appear that way,’ she replies evenly, meeting his eyes.

_What have you been doing? What’s Coulson brought you in on?_

_What’s your play here?_

He’s the first to tear his gaze away, and May feels something clench uncomfortably in her chest.

‘I’ve got a phone consultation that I’ll have to make first. I’m assuming that won’t be an issue?’

It’s not a question; despite the way he’s worded it, he’s clearly going to take the phone call first, whether it suits them or not. Feeling a sudden flare of annoyance at the dismissal (he’s seriously going to go behind her back, then blow her off when she demands answers?), she’s about to tell him that it _is_ going to be an issue, actually, when Jemma cuts in. 

‘Oh no, not at all,’ she says in a pleasant voice, diplomatic smile firmly in place.

May sighs. 

Jemma’s right.

This isn’t personal. This is for Coulson. This is for SHIELD.

She can be professional.

‘Kitchen’s through there,’ he points out, headed for the other room. ‘Help yourself to a cup of tea.’

And then, just like that, they’re alone once more.

_Well. Okay then._

Swallowing down her frustration, her unease at the entire situation, May looks a question at Jemma.

‘Oh, yes please. Would you like a hand?’ 

With what she hopes is a reassuring smile, May shakes her head. She’d rather deal with the reality of Andrew’s unfamiliar kitchen away from the gaze of others, no matter how well intentioned they might be.

 

 

-

-

 

 

(He still keeps the teabags in the cupboard above the stovetop. It’s where she’s been keeping hers, both on the Bus and at the Playground. She doesn’t really know what that says about either of them.)

 

 

-

-

 

 

When she walks back out into the living area, a cup of tea held in each hand, she looks across to see what has Jemma so fascinated in the far corner of the room. The sight that meets her causes her to inhale sharply, her previously sure steps faltering.

It’s a piano.

_Her_ piano.

The one so alike to the instrument upon which she’d first learned to play, when she was still exceptionally, stubbornly young. The one that had stood in the house she’d shared with Andrew, when she used to play to unwind, to express. The one she used to imagine she’d sit at with a child one day, teaching them how to make the instrument sing. 

The one she hadn’t even been able to look at after Bahrain.

(It makes sense that he still has it, really. It _is_ a lovely instrument.) 

Reluctantly tearing her eyes away, May walks over to set the teacups on the coffee table, fighting to keep her hands steady all the while. It doesn’t matter that he still has the piano. It doesn’t affect her. It _doesn’t_.

Jemma’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the slight hesitation, however. Her entire face lights up.

‘Oh, you played too?’

There’s a smile tugging at May’s lips despite herself, because of _course_ Jemma Simmons can play the piano. Of course she can.

‘Many, many years ago.’

‘Same here,’ she confides. ‘I had lessons as a child – I think that’s rule number one in the gifted child handbook, isn’t it? Give them an instrument?’

(May wouldn’t know. May actively tries to avoid thinking about parenting handbooks and gifted children.)

‘I adored it, really,’ she continues absently, tilting her head and regarding the piano with great interest. ‘Then it all got rather stressful when I was trying to balance it with university work – it started to feel more like a chore than a release, I guess. And then I ended up at the Academy, as you know. There aren’t an awful lot of pianos at the Sci-Tech Academy, if you can believe that.’

May rewards that with a half-smile. Pleased, Jemma turns back to the instrument, wistfulness clearly written across her features. She sighs.

‘I do miss it, sometimes.’

The deep yearning in the scientist’s eyes makes the breath catch in May’s throat, and she’s momentarily overwhelmed. She hasn’t gone near a piano since before Bahrain, since before the very thought of what she can no longer have made her insides ache, and suddenly Jemma Simmons is hovering haltingly above the piano that had been such an unquestioned element of May's life, fingers clearly burning with the need to try it out and yet not daring to approach it.

The sight of it is almost too much to bear, so when May speaks, it’s without conscious thought.

‘Go ahead.’

Jemma looks across at her with the most disbelievingly hopeful expression that May’s perhaps ever seen on the young biochemist’s face, so she nods once more to convince her. She holds her breath as Jemma neatly sits herself at the piano stool, chewing on her lower lip as she regards the instrument.

And then, with a painstaking tentativeness, she reaches out and plays a couple of chords with her right hand, fingers expertly caressing the keys once, twice, three times, before she abruptly retracts her hand as though burnt.

May’s eyes widen as she listens to the notes ring out across the silence, the ramifications of the sound seeming to settle deep within her bones. 

Out of tune.

The piano is out of tune.

_Nobody in this house has been playing it._

Despite the slight dissonance echoing around the room, May feels the tight knot of tension in the back of her neck loosen somewhat.

Jemma’s leaning forward now, frowning intently at the sheet music spread out there – for decoration, May reminds herself again.

(Nobody is playing her piano.)

Taking a centering breath, May crosses the room to stand behind the girl.

‘I always hated sight-reading,’ Jemma muses aloud, brow creased as she continues to scan the notes.

‘Really?’ May asks, the question escaping before she can stop herself, because that genuinely surprises her. She would have thought Jemma would love that – getting to show off, to prove her talent and prowess.

But Jemma only shoots her a bashful little smile. 

‘I liked the ones you could practice,’ she explains, her eyes drawn almost immediately back to the keys. ‘All the preparation in the world doesn’t really matter when you’re facing an entirely unknown combination of notes.’

Now _that_ sounds more like the Jemma she knows.

Refusing to allow herself to overthink it, May rounds the other side of the stool and looks a question at her young charge. Absolute delight breaks across the girl’s face, and she quickly shuffles across to make room for May. She sits, and it’s a bit of a tight squeeze with the two of them shoulder-to-shoulder on the tiny one-person stool, but she’s done it.

She’s sitting at a piano for the first time in over seven years. 

Oblivious to the sheer significance of the moment, Jemma plays a couple of quick arpeggios, lips quirking in contentment as she makes the notes rise and fall in the right order.

‘I was rather terrible at improvisation – I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you in the slightest.’

It doesn’t. She can easily picture a younger version of this woman, her face scrunched up in concentration as she taps away at the keys, her eyes filled with worry when she’s faced with the prospect of going off-book.

A lot like when they’d first started working together, really.

‘It’s hard,’ May offers. ‘You’ve got to know the rules to work outside them.’

Jemma hums in agreement, her eyes distant and her face relaxed for the first time in what feels like eons. She’s been picking away at a select few notes as they speak, but she’s being so achingly gentle with the keys, almost as though she’s trying to coax a piece from her memories. Every couple of notes she seems to hit the wrong key, testing the surrounding ones until she finds the right note and continuing on. Eventually, a melody begins to emerge from the uncertainty.

May feels a distant smile play at her lips.

‘Beethoven?’ she asks finally, looking across at Jemma’s face. Jemma only smiles proudly back, eyes alight, and May knows that her guess was correct.

‘This was always one of my favourite pieces.’

‘Moonlight Sonata, right?’

Jemma nods, still smiling, and repeats the section she’s just played – she’s more confident this time, her own body’s remembrance encouraging her. The tune seems to flow from her fingers.

‘Pretty mournful for a kid,’ May offers dryly, watching the girl’s fingers dance along the keys. To her surprise, Jemma only releases an exaggerated sigh.

‘Well. As you can imagine, I was a _deeply_ unhappy child.’

A startled laugh spills from May’s mouth, completely unbidden, because that’s Melinda May humour. That’s Melinda May deadpan. She hasn’t seen this sort of playfulness from Jemma since well before their plane was grounded at the new base.

(It’s such a _relief_.)

Jemma looks across at her, utterly delighted at eliciting such a response.

‘There were a lot more upbeat pieces as well,’ she relents after playing a few more bars. ‘Bach had some great ones, Chopin. I quite liked a lot of the more dramatic Mozart pieces too. But there’s just something about this one in particular.’

Her fingers still then, resting on a couple of keys, and May can hear the unfinished musical phrase hanging in the air.

What surprises her is how much her own fingers itch to finish it.

‘It’s… the memory, I think,’ Jemma utters quietly, voice nearly a whisper. Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, she shakes her head slightly and drops her hands to her lap. ‘I can’t really explain it.’

May thinks she knows what Jemma’s getting at, though. Music becomes so easily associated with memories: that one tune that played on the radio five hours into a roadtrip, staticky and perfect, or that song that was top of the charts when you graduated. The memory and the song become entwined, so that you can never truly recall them as separate entities.

But still, there’s something different about being the one making the music, some other, higher force that ties you to the moment by merit of your own hands creating it. You’re _in_ the memory, shaping and crafting it, but at the same time the memory is happening to you.

You’re outside of yourself. 

And May’s missed that feeling more than she can say.

Jolted out of her thoughts by the silence that has claimed them both, May blinks at the girl sitting to her right, their sides pressed snugly together. She thinks of all the times she’d imagined being seated right where she is now, a small child of her own tapping away at the keys next to her as she quietly instructed them. The idea of it had been unbearable to her, after Bahrain. Unfathomable.

She’d never have guessed that her life would take the route that it has. It’s not what 6-year-old Melinda May, sitting up at the piano, would have guessed at. It’s not the life she ever chose for herself, nor is it the one she asked for.

But somehow, despite all the pain, it’s better.

Because it’s the one she’s made from what she’s been given. The one she’s carved out for herself, made her own.

It’s _hers_. 

And all May wants in the world, right at this moment, is for this girl she loves like a daughter to continue playing the piano.

‘You…’ she swallows, clearing the emotion from her throat quietly. ‘You should keep playing.’

Jemma tilts her head at that, her eyes searching.

‘You think so?’ she asks gently.

With a tremulous smile, May nods – just the once. ‘You were doing really well.’

Delight flutters across the girl’s face at the compliment, but then she quickly becomes troubled.

‘Dr. Garner won’t mind?’

May only just resists the urge to roll her eyes. ‘Jemma.’

‘Right. Sorry.’

But there’s an excited smile on her face anyway, and as she starts from the top of the first movement once more, May finds herself grinning back at how much more confidently the girl’s playing. She has to reach across May every so often, to get at some of the chords with her left hand, and so May shifts backwards a little to accommodate.

(She considers giving her even more room, but then she thinks back to the way she’d been enveloped in a frantic hug upon her return from the ship, the way desperate sadness seems to constantly linger at the back of Jemma’s gaze now, no matter what May says. She thinks of how nearly all of Jemma’s people have left her, how she must be feeling almost as isolated as she had when she was at Hydra.

It seems to May like Jemma might appreciate the proximity at the moment.)

But even with May leaning a little out of the way, Jemma seems to be struggling to play the piece comfortably. Unthinkingly, May reaches out a hand, fingertips only barely touching the small of Jemma’s back.

‘Straighten your back a little,’ she murmurs. Eyebrows shooting upwards, Jemma immediately rushes to heed May’s advice, subtly adjusting her posture. As her shoulders find a more upright position, her hands seem to find more reach, allowing her a greater degree of motion along the keys.

‘I remember now,’ she breathes, her smile an awed, fragile thing. May feels a fond warmth spread throughout her chest at the sight.

‘It’s the muscle memory,’ she confirms, and Jemma hasn’t done much physical training with May, not really, but she’s done enough to know the value May places on muscle memory.

What she doesn’t know yet, though, is that it’s more than that. It’s straightening your shoulders, lifting your chin and staring down a world that doesn’t understand, that might never understand. It’s forcing your shaky knees to lock into place, rather than buckling under the weight of it all.

It’s knowing when to stay, and knowing when to flee.

It’s fighting, rather than succumbing.

It’s _continuing_.

And the thing is, Jemma has been learning this lesson the hard way. Because Jemma _stayed_. This girl who is always so ready to leave – to leave the base, leave consciousness, leave _life_ – for the sake of others, for those she loves, has learned the value of staying. She’s learning that there is just as much courage in planting her feet and refusing to budge.

But she’s also learning that there is just as much sacrifice involved. She’s learning how much it _aches_ , how much it feels like drowning.

She’s continuing, Jemma Simmons, but she’s struggling to hold onto her fight.

And that’s why she needs May, sometimes – to remind her to straighten her shoulders.

Jemma’s playing becomes more halting then, her fingers growing unsure within the melody, and May realises that she’s reaching the limits of her recollection. She remembers no more of this particular piece.

But May does.

May knows the entire first movement.

And she doesn’t even think twice before her left hand reaches out and easily finds the chord for which Jemma has been searching.

Her eyes wide, regarding May carefully, Jemma plays the rest of the bar with her right hand and holds her breath, waiting to see what May will do. May pauses before playing the next chord, simply closing her eyes and enjoying the feel of the cool keys beneath her fingertips for the longest of moments.

Oh, how she’s missed this.

Instinctively sensing the poignancy of the moment, Jemma gently removes her hand from the keys, shuffling backwards to let May have free reign of the piano. With a surge of gratitude, May raises her right hand out of her lap and then she’s playing, picking up the other section of the melody effortlessly and letting the memories overtake her.

Six years old, with her strict piano teacher hovering behind her shoulder.

14, challenging herself to work through an entire book’s worth of Beethoven over summer.

38, recounting the little factoid she’d read about Beethoven using this piece to propose to his love, Andrew laughing with warmth in his eyes as he’d noted that Beethoven seemed like _a bit of a downer_.

(It _is_ a mournful piece, she thinks. But for the first time in recent memory, there’s something freeing in that.)

Jemma’s watching on fondly, and May makes sure to catch the girl’s bright gaze with her own, giving her a small grin. Then, out of the blue, she remembers Jemma’s delight at leading their tail on a merry chase earlier, and a new idea strikes her. She plays another few bars before finding a logical stopping point, and then, with a dramatic flourish, she transitions into the abrupt, lurching chords of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony. 

‘May!’ Jemma exclaims on a surprised laugh.

Buoyed by the girl’s reaction and feeling unexpectedly lighthearted, May continues to play, making sure to crescendo at just the right part to make the performance as humorous as possible. By the time she reaches the first repeat of the iconic opening, Jemma’s laughing inelegantly, both hands fluttering up near her neck as she watches on in disbelief. And then –

A throat clears loudly from the doorway.

Jemma startles violently away from the piano, and May lurches to her feet, whirling around to find Andrew standing in the doorway.

_Oh no._

‘Oh! I’m so sorry, were we too loud?’ Jemma’s asking him, wringing her hands together nervously. Andrew’s not looking at her, though.

He’s looking only at May. 

‘You’re fine. It’s just,’ he exhales heavily, ‘not a sound I’ve heard in a while.’

He seems as though he’s been thrown off balance by it all, and May feels the tiniest pang of regret for how she sprang this upon him.

(There must be a reason he hasn’t been playing it, after all.)

‘It’s a little out of tune,’ she tells him, voice flat but lined with as much playful accusation as she dares.

But Andrew only gazes back at her steadily, a small smile teasing at the corners of his mouth.

‘I think you’ll find it’s much more in tune than you think.’

She holds his eye contact for the longest moment, so many warm memories lingering in the space between them, before she captures a glimpse of Jemma’s face out of the corner of her eye. The girl is beaming widely, a knowing glint in her eye. 

_Oh no._

May can see what’s going to happen before Jemma even opens her mouth to speak.

‘I can wait outside – ’

‘Simmons,’ May warns.

‘Or I can just stay here! Also good,’ she gushes, cringing at her own awkwardness.

May only sighs.

‘Shall we sit?’ Andrew intercedes smoothly, gesturing to the couch and their forgotten tea, and just like that, at the reminder of why they’re here, the mood fades back to something much more sombre. Just like that, they’re back to business.

Back to the business of bringing their people home. 

May silently readies herself for whatever revelations the next few minutes will bring, walking over to the couch.

(Next to May, Jemma straightens her shoulders.)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! As always, you can find me on tumblr at 'imperfectlychaotic' if you want to drop by and say hello.
> 
> (also, if you're unfamiliar with the piece by name, I highly recommend you do a YouTube search and listen to the start of Beethoven's 5th Symphony, so that you can fully understand Jemma's reaction/May's goofiness.)


End file.
